


Broken Dreams and Healing Wheels

by Dweo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Disability, Disabled Character, M/M, Permanent Injury, Physical Disability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-28 18:08:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dweo/pseuds/Dweo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a case gone wrong that leaves his body broken, Sherlock learns that he does not have to do everything on his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mycroft

**Author's Note:**

  * For [novadiablo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/novadiablo/gifts).



> A gift for: novadiab1o at sherlockmas

Sherlock never saw the blow coming. He had been so caught up in the chase he had not been paying attention to the world around him. The last thing he remembered was calling for John to follow him and then nothing. Now he finally came to, he found he was tied to a chair, and had a pounding headache that made him moan.

"It seems our guest is awake." Sherlock tried to fight back the other groan that threatened to escape because the sound made his head pound even worst.

"Open your eyes sleeping beauty." At those words Sherlock's head was roughly pulled back. After it became clear they weren't going to let go of his hair unless he opened his eyes he complied. The bright light made him flinch and the pain that shot through his head told him he probably had a concussion. He wanted to curse, but found to his surprise there was something in his mouth. His tongue probed the rough texture.

Fabric, discarded towel, used to wipe hands, dirty, the taste of oil. The taste flooded his mouth and drowned out everything else.

With a lot of effort he started to focus on other things. He tested his hands and found they were bound by rough rope. He felt the ropes bite into his right wrist, but he noticed it pushed his watch into his left wrist. His jacket was pulled tight around his chest and he felt his phone pushing into his ribs. Then he opened his eyes again and looked around properly. He was in a small room. The view from a large window showed him he was in an office in a high rise, about three floors up. He mentally extrapolated his precise position, then, using the position of the light reflected from the Gherkin and the sounds coming from outside, he calculated it had been thirty minutes since they had taken him. They turned out to be two men dressed in simple jeans and t-shirts. They weren't masked, which was a bad thing Sherlock knew. It meant they were either incompetent, careless or over-confidant. All three decreased his changes of survival significantly.

The tallest of the man, expensive new shoes, cheap jeans and T-shirt, so most likely just come into money, moved to him and removed the gag.

"What do you want?" he spat out after he had assessed his situation fully.

"Nothing special, we just needed you out of the way long enough for us to do our thing. Oh, and you have something of ours." Sherlock's eyes became wide. He suddenly remembered whom he had been hunting.

"So why are you here? Shouldn't you be blowing up government buildings?" Sherlock sneered at them. It cost him a hard slap across his face. The taste of blood filled his mouth and with the lingering taste of oil made Sherlock gag. He should really be more prepared; he should have known they were going to hurt him.

"Well, for the moment we just want you to tell us where you hid the detonators you stole from Johnny." Sherlock looked incomprehensively at the man for moment, until he realised what the man had been talking about. The fact it took him several seconds to understand what was going on wasn't good Sherlock realised. His mind was not working at full capacity; he was too slow.

"You mean the detonators I took from a death man. You're saying that were your only detonators?" Sherlock snorted, this was a truly pathetic bunch of crooks.

The words cost him another slap. He knew this wasn't doing his headache and concussion any good, but he was lost at what to do else.

"We've our orders to make you talk and we're allowed to be creative." Sherlock groaned. This really wasn't going to be pleasant.

"Does your mother know you're doing this? I don't think she, or God for that matter, approves of torture," Sherlock said after he spotted the mum tattoo and the small cross around his neck.

The man ignored his words, although the hit to his ribs that followed was much harder than the other had been and left Sherlock gasping for breath.

"Make sure the chair stays up right." Suddenly Sherlock found himself being held by another man from behind.

Sherlock focused on that man for a moment and even though he could not see the man he could feel his hands which were soft, not the hands of manual labourer. The slight smell of nail varnish clung to the man's skin and Sherlock sneered.

"Did we interrupt your manicure appointment?" Sherlock turned his head as he addressed the man.

The force with which the man pulled his arms together, wrenching a pained yell from Sherlock, showed the words had hit target.

He knew he played a dangerous game, but he needed to keep them busy. John would be there in ten minutes, the tracker in his watch would have told him where Sherlock was. And Lestrade, warned by John, would most likely take twelve. Mycroft was probably already surrounding the building, using the tracker in Sherlock's phone. Sherlock just needed to make sure the men were suitably distracted.

Then a knife was pulled and Sherlock looked at it wearily. Of course, if they slit his throat because he antagonized them too much, those ten minutes would not matter anyway, so Sherlock decided silence would be the best part of valour.

The men obviously disagreed with his silence and they kept exchanging questions for hits, cuts and any other thing they could find to hurt him with. Sherlock slowly counted down and then just as his ten minutes were up, he heard noise outside. The men looked at each other and with a curse they started to panic.

"We need to kill him now," the catholic mother's boy said.

"Slit his throat'," said Mr. 'At least my hands feel nice when I'm strangling you with them'.

"No, if we cut this throat we'll end up covered in blood. I've got a better idea." At those words he started to drag Sherlock, still tied up to the window. And just as Sherlock realised what they had planned, they gave his chair a great shove. The last thing Sherlock saw was John running into the room, the crooks trying to flee as his chair slowly toppled backwards out of the window.

***  
The next thing Sherlock knew was the lovely fuzzy feeling opiates always gave him.

It had been a long time he had allowed himself this feeling, so he enjoyed it for a few minutes, not caring as to why he suddenly was once again in the arms of his deadliest enemy.

"Sherlock?" He opened his right eye, his left seemed to be stuck, and looked at John sitting next to him. It was almost like he had a halos and Sherlock smiled. Something in the back of his mind screamed at him about things being wrong, but he decided looking at John and enjoying the opiate high was so much more comfortable. When the drugs slowly drag him under he let them and even with his eyes closed he could still see John.

The second time he woke up things were decidedly different. He felt pain through his whole body, making it impossible to open his eyes making impossible to move. He just let the world know he wasn't happy the only way he could, with a loud gasp of pain.

"He's waking up. I'm telling you his pain medication needs to be upped." Even through the haze of pain Sherlock recognized John.

"I'm not sure," Mycroft's voice broke through and Sherlock felt torn between smiling at Mycroft and scowling at his words, even though he didn't understand why. Mycroft would make the pain stop; he always did. And then he felt a familiar hand on his forehead.

"We'll stop the pain Sherlock" He heard a few clicks and slowly the haze of the opiates came over him and all he remembered before he lost consciousness again was Mycroft's comfortable hand on his cheek.

The next time they found perfect edge between pain and drowsiness, so Sherlock finally woke up.

This was also the moment him mind decided to return with those warnings and panic as Sherlock suddenly realized he couldn't open his left eye. He drew several deep breaths trying to calm himself. He knew the only way to calm his mind, to get the chaos and panic out, was to observe, to order the signals his body gave him.

The sound bouncing of the walls told him he lay in a mostly empty room. The smell was not that of a hospital, but also not that of Baker Street. He could still taste the antiseptic in the air, but it was disguised with expensive taste of good lavender oil.

He opened his eye and looked around the room. It was bare, nothing to indicate where he was. At least that was what the average person could see. He could feel from the expensive thread count under his fingertips he lay on expensive sheets. He tried to move his hands but they were tied down somehow and his left arm felt oddly heavy, too heavy. A cast his mind supplied him.

Then suddenly things slammed into his mind. His fingers told him information, just as his ears, eye and nose were, but he wasn't receiving any information from his legs.

He no longer could feel his legs.

***  
"Can we all please stop the 'Sherlock is a poor delicate patient' act and actually talk to me?" Sherlock said loudly at the room at large. John and Mycroft looked up at him, one exasperated the other worried. The doctor they had been talking to had jumped up and took a few steps back.

"Sherlock, please." Mycroft sounded actually distasteful at Sherlock's words.

"You treat me a like I'm a small child. You avoid looking at me. Why? I know my body and I know things are very, very wrong. So please stop avoiding the subject and. Tell. Me." Sherlock lay back, breathing heavily, and he realised he was already exhausted even though he had only woken up 10 minutes ago.

"Sherlock, please calm down you'll hurt yourself if you move like that." John had moved to him placing his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock opened his right eye and glared at John. John actually smirked back at him, before sitting down in the chair next to Sherlock's bed.

"I don't know where to start," he said after a few moments.

"Did I lose my left eye?" Sherlock asked and he couldn't keep the trace of fear out of his voice. John looked up sharply, clearly surprised. He probably expected Sherlock to immediately ask about his legs.

"No, your eye should be okay," Mycroft answered.

"We had to immobilise it, but we'll probably remove the bandages later today," the doctor added. Sherlock brought up his right arm and felt a big bandage running over his left eye and the top of his head. Then another fact hit him and he growled.

"You cut my hair." A snort came from his side.

"Of all the things to complain about you complain about your hair." John seemed for some reason torn between worry and amusement

"I," Sherlock started, but he couldn't finish.

"You cut your head, sustained a concussion, dislocated your shoulder, broke your left arm in three places, broke 6 ribs, punctured your lung, broke your back, cut your left leg and broke your left thigh in two places. You also sustained several bruises, cuts, lost a lot of blood and should by all means be death," Mycroft said. For an untrained Mycroft watcher he sounded callus and mean, but Sherlock could hear the worry the desperation in Mycroft's voice. John looked between the two brothers ready to comfort Sherlock and Sherlock hated the look of pity in his eyes. Sherlock closed his eye took several deep breaths, expelling John's face for moment and then opened it again.

"What is my prognosis? Tell me everything I need to know, tell me what I can and can't do anymore. Tell me what I need to know and do to get out of here and back to my life." At these words Sherlock lay back, taking in the words telling him he would never walk again, never run again, telling he was disabled, telling him he was broken.

***  
"When am I allowed out of here?" Sherlock stared at the wall, trying hard to keep the chaos in his mind at bay.

"The moment we're sure you can take care of yourself." Mycroft stood at the window, looking out over London. It was the first time they had together since Sherlock had woken up. John had collapsed from exhaustion an hour ago and after some persuading (and manhandling) had gone home to get a proper night sleep.

"Of course, I can take care of myself." Sherlock found his mind focusing on Mycroft and his words.

"Sherlock, at this moment you can't even go to the toilet without help." Mycroft's words were condescending and made all sorts of feelings rise in Sherlock, feelings he worked very hard to suppress.

"What does it all matter? I mean, what use am I to anyone now?" Sherlock spat as he tried to wiggle into a more comfortable position.

"Sherlock, you're very lucky," Mycroft said, his voice was pained.

"Well, I don't feel it," Sherlock said petulantly.

"You're alive. You can still move most of your body."

"Yeah, and?" Sherlock wanted throw something at Mycroft's back. Mycroft turned to him like he had read Sherlock's murderous thoughts.

"You still have your mind," Mycroft stated coolly. Sherlock suddenly felt the anger that had been building up ever since had woken up burst out.

"What use does that have? What use does my brain have if its transport failed?" At those words Sherlock hurled the glass of water against the wall. Mycroft, to his credit, didn't flinch at Sherlock's anger.

"My mind is no use if I can't go to crime scenes. My mind is no use if I can't chase the criminals down. All I'll be good for is sitting in a dusty office, telling people what they can't see. I need the leg work. I'm not like you." Mycroft smiled sadly at Sherlock and then sat down beside him.

"Sherlock, you'll still be able to do all that." Mycroft placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"How, Mycroft? I don't know if you noticed, but I'm paralyzed. I can't walk, not anymore. I need my legs to do my job." Sherlock felt all frustration he had felt at his body's failure come out.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "But there are so many things we can do to help you. Millions of people around the world manage to get by in wheelchairs so could you. You're still you, even without the use of your legs." They sat in silence. Sherlock hated his brother at this moment, hated him for the fact he would rather sit than run, hated him for his compassion, his understanding. Slowly other thoughts took over, thoughts that ran around in his mind, thoughts that grew and grew until he could no longer contain them.

"I'm scared, Mycroft." And for the first time since he had woken up Sherlock admitted to himself he was scared. Scared he was no longer the man he once was; scared he could no longer take care of himself; scared of the boredom which had already almost destroyed him once.

"I know. So am I. But that isn't going to stop me from making sure you don't do anything stupid." At these words Mycroft placed his hands on Sherlock's. Sherlock looked down at the hands and closed his eyes. He wasn't sure things would be all right, but for now he at least felt safe.


	2. Lestrade

They all looked up at the scream and after a moment of confusion Sherlock was in hot pursuit of the thief. It only took Sherlock a few moments to find the bastard. It turned out wheelchairs are much faster than pedestrians, even when they're a junior champion.

Sherlock cornered the thief, blocking the man's only way out with his wheelchair. Sherlock dodged the first punch and jabbed the man in his stomach with his elbow. He placed a few more precise punches with his fists, hitting the most sensitive areas.

Sherlock tried to hit the man in his ribs, but the man blocked him and started to really fight back. He drove Sherlock backwards and to Sherlock's horror he couldn't control both the chair and fight at the same time. He could not turn around quick enough. He could no long duck and weave and now he was losing badly. Just as he brought up his hands, to at least protect his face, somebody pulled the thief away and floored him with one big punch

"Are you all right?" John was out of breath and flinched as he flexed his hand. Sherlock looked on, and with sigh rolled away. Sherlock felt confused. John had always come to his rescue in fights, so why did it annoy him so much now that he could not defend himself. He thought he could be himself; he could do his own thing and now the chair prevented him from moving, from fighting, from being the man he needed to be.

Sherlock rolled on, ignoring John's calls and slowly made his way back home, letting the rain soak him. The thoughts that scared him in the hospital were back. If he couldn't defend himself he would be a danger to himself and to John. He took the long way home, lost in his thoughts.

John already waited for him when he finally came home.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock ignored John and went to his room. He undressed clumsily, his fingers stiff from the cold wet outside. When he finally was undressed he placed the wheelchair in front of the mirror in his room.

He looked himself over. His legs had already started to atrophy from lack of movement and the once lovely muscular calves were thin. His upper legs weren't much better and the ugly scar on his left thigh didn't help.

His eyes went over the rest of his body. He had to admit he most definitely had broadened out in the chest and arms. Then his eyes looked straight forwards, straight at his face.

And the scar.

The scar that still stood out in bright pink. Sherlock traced the scar from the top of his head slowly down to the edge of his left eye. It gave his left eye a slight up turned look, like he had permanently raised his eyebrow.

Sherlock had always known he was slightly vain. He had always used his looks to influence people, but now nothing worked anymore and now he had to relearn all of it, not just walking, but manipulating, acting too. He lost people's admiration and had received only pity in return. His natural charm seemed to be gone and people couldn't see past the scar and the wheelchair. With a disgusted look on his face he turned around, no longer wanting to look at himself.

***   
Three days later John barged into his room.

"You have case. Get up."

"Why would I?" Sherlock asked annoyed, not yet ready to give up his self chosen exile.

"Lestrade called he had case and I'm not giving you a choice." Sherlock for a moment felt like turning his back to John, but then decided sulking was getting old by now, so he slowly got up.

Fifteen minutes later they stood in front of 221B watching the cars drive past. John smiled as one of the black cars stopped in front of them.

"You asked him for help?" Sherlock looked disgusted at John. "Why?"

"Well, why not? I'm not paying for a taxi and this is so much more comfortable." Sherlock careful placed himself in the backseat of the car, and let John fold up the chair without a word. It was interesting that, despite Sherlock's injury, life had return to normal and John was still Sherlock's fetching boy.

The car left the moment John closed the door behind them. They were gone from London soon enough and after an hour of silence Sherlock slowly became nervous. He could feel John's eyes on him as he stared at the changing landscape, trying to keep his hands from trembling.

"Where are we going?" He finally broke the silence.

"You'll see." John smiled, "I think this will be good for you."

They finally stopped in a field in the middle of nowhere. Or it would have been the middle of nowhere if the middle of nowhere had enough cars and red and white tape to make even the biggest crime scene groupie happy.

"Can you see Lestrade?" John looked around at the large group of people.

"There." Sherlock pointed to the DI, who stood next to a car talking to a tall female police officer. He did a double take at the way Lestrade looked. He was dressed in the tightest pair of motor trousers Sherlock had ever seen and he had to admit it looked good on the DI.

"What are we doing here and where's you team or aren't they here yet? But then again they're probably too stupid to find their own behinds, let alone a god forsaken place like this." Sherlock didn't feel like greeting the DI.

"They won't be here. This is not my case," Lestrade said calmly, ignoring Sherlock's jibe.

"Then why did you call me?" Sherlock said. The look on his face was torn between the excitement of being back and the thought of being called out here in the middle of nowhere far from his beloved London.

"This." Lestrade held up the tape and Sherlock rolled over to the body.

"What were you doing here?" John asked curiously.

"Isn't it obviously?" Sherlock's voice rang over the field.

"No, not to us lesser mortals," John said.

"Look at Lestrade's clothing, the mud on his shoes and his face. He was competing today." John looked the DI over from top to bottom and Lestrade smiled, before leading John to Sherlock.

"I sometimes drive my motor in the senior league of motor cross. Today was just a short rally and I saw her when I drove past." At those words they reached the body of what looked like a teenage girl.

"Young, between fourteen and sixteen." Sherlock was back in his element, watching the crime scene. After a few minutes he smiled. He closed his eyes for moment, listened and then smiled again.

"She was shot."

"Shot?" Lestrade looked surprised, "How do you figure that? She clearly broke her neck."

"If you thought that you wouldn't have called me. She sat in the tree to watch the race and somebody shot her with an airgun. There is too much blood for a simple fall down a tree. She probably dropped down the tree in surprise and broke her neck. I've no doubt you will find a small wound some where on her. The shot came from over there." Sherlock pointed to a house a few hundred yards away.

"Ah." Lestrade suddenly looked grim.

"It was an accident," Sherlock said softly, "They meant to hit the car that came by. They missed and accidently shot her." Sherlock's eyes had regained their vigour, their smile.

"I wouldn't be surprised. Jones over there hates the rally and protests every year, sometimes peacefully, often not so much. Last year he blew several holes in the course, making it impossible for us to use it."

"I can't blame him," Sherlock said, "all that noise."

"It's once a year," Lestrade started to protest, but Sherlock had already rolled away.

"Can we go home?" Sherlock said as he reached the car

"Yeah, I'm packing up too; the locals have things well in hand here. I was just on my way to my racing team; perhaps you and John would like to join me. They would probably love to meet you, John." John raised an eyebrow at those words. Sherlock intrigued with the words, eagerly got into the car again, leaving once again his chair for John to deal with. Lestrade sat down on his motor John looked appreciatively at the rather lovely sight of the DI driving away on the cross motor.

Their car followed him at a short distance, ignoring the fact that it wasn't exactly built to drive small, sandy roads. They finally reached busy collection of tents and John dutifully placed the chair beside the car door.

Sherlock looked around, wondering what could be of interest to John when, with a yell another wheelchair came hurtling towards them. It skidded to a halt and the man sitting in it hopped out on one leg, hugging John enthusiastically.

Sherlock felt one of his eyebrows rise in surprise. This was new and unexpected and he wanted to know everything about it. The man wore a racing suit like that of a driver. His hair was military short and judging by the way he greeted John, and the fact he was an amputee, it was clear this was an old soldier, also invalided home.

"John, how are you? Let me see." The man spun John around, not giving him a change to reply. "You've lost the cane. Guys, I want you to meet the best man in the world," the soldier yelled, while he led a rather embarrassed John to a nearby tent. Lestrade and Sherlock looked at each other. There was both mirth and surprise in Lestrade's face.

"I think John knows him,' Lestrade said. Sherlock rolled his eyes and followed the two men into the small tent. There, to Sherlock's surprise, was large group of people, many with wheelchairs, others sitting on the ground, some missing an arm or leg or both. John was shown around like a show puppy. Sherlock sat back enjoying Johns' delighted face. Finally they returned and John finally introduced the man properly.

"Rick, this Sherlock. Sherlock, Captain Rick Westerveld." Sherlock shook the man's hand deducing as much as he could about him.

"You're a driver, but you were invalided home after your convoy was blown apart by an IED." Sherlock looked at the man, who for a moment looked pained and then he nodded. 'And John saved you." Sherlock suddenly realised.

"Yeah, he managed to save me, even though my femoral artery was blown to bits. He really is a brilliant doctor," he said, making John that delightful shade of red Sherlock adored, but didn't see enough.

"But you haven't told me what brings you here? And for that matter how do you know Greg?" Sherlock looked at Lestrade for a moment and then smiled.

"We're here to investigate a murder."

"I didn't know you were with the police now."

"Nah, we're strictly freelance. Sherlock here is the police force's official consulting detective. And I'm here to make sure he doesn't get himself killed." Sherlock had rarely seen John so jovial.

"Oh yeah, I read about that. Good on you mate. How you did you end up in that thing?" He turned to Sherlock and looked admiringly at Sherlock's chair. And to Sherlock's surprise he actually liked it.

"Thrown out of the window, while tied to a chair," Sherlock said nonchalantly, but he felt the same stab of anger he always felt at the thought.

"That's different." The man smiled, "Come and let me introduce you to the others."

Sherlock followed the other man in his wheelchair, not paying attention to Lestrade and John. Sherlock was strangely fascinated by the careless man before him. The introductions were made quickly and it turned out the whole group had the same sort of outlook on life.

"Nice set of wheels." The broad shouldered black man sat in a rather bright and beat up chair.

"Yours aren't too bad either." Sherlock leaned over to look at the graffiti all over the chair. He recognized few tags and smiled.

"I'm Carl, by the way, and these are Ed and Potter. So what brings you here?" the man asked.

"They came here for the murder of that girl." The men flinched at Lestrade's words.

"So young, it's always difficult," Carl said, but he didn't look shocked.

"Tea break is over; you need to get this thing back on the road." Lestrade placed his hand on the rally car in the middle of the tent. "I just came to see what you guys wanted to eat tonight."

"Chinese," the whole group chimed in.

"I saw you roll around." Carl moved his chair beside Sherlock. "Looked sleek, but you really have to get something to protect your legs a bit more. Like this." The man moved away and turned his chair on the spot, showing Sherlock how he had covered his lower legs with leather spats.

"If you're chasing people you need protection." With one smooth move Carl pulled a knife from the edge of the chair. "People will underestimate you, while you're in that chair. Use that to your advantage. Are you a good fighter?"

"Of course." Sherlock looked at the man.

"I can give you some pointers if you want them. Your legs are just as useless as mine." He hit his leg with slightly more force then was necessary and the look on his face was one Sherlock recognized. He had seen it enough in the last few months in the mirror.

"Come and visit me in the gym sometime and I will teach you some moves. It would be a shame if you got that face of yours all beat up again." Sherlock found himself with a small business card and the man nodded and then rolled away. John after few moments joined him again.

"Ready to go?" John asked.

"Yeah." Sherlock looked thoughtfully at the card, came to a decision and put it away carefully. "John, how would you feel about joining a gym?"


	3. John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank the brilliant AV for being an ever so patient beta and expert in ways to have two men have sex in a wheelchair.

Sherlock noticed a slow change in John. He had become withdrawn, insecure. He was reluctant to touch Sherlock, sometimes moved to put his hand on Sherlock without thought and held himself back the moment he realized what he was doing.

The signals were subtle, but Sherlock knew what they meant. John was only here out of pity, no longer out of love. It was clear to Sherlock John stopped loving him some time since the accident. And Sherlock knew he too had been withdrawn, ignoring John unless John made an effort to engage him, something which had been happening less and less. And then about 4 weeks ago John started disappearing more and more, coming home drunk several times. Sherlock would, in the old days, have deduced where he had been and with whom, these days he was too scared to even contemplate doing that. He just accepted it and waited for the unavoidable day it would all end and come crashing round their ears.

"What do you want, John?" John stood in the door, watching Sherlock with a thoughtful look.

"I was wondering why you're running away from me, Sherlock." John walked into the room and stopped in front of Sherlock, his face still blank

"Running away? I'm not the one running away," Sherlock said, "As you might have noticed, I can't run."

"You know what I mean, Sherlock." John walked to the window, his back to Sherlock.

"You've been avoiding me ever since you came home from your brother." Sherlock felt dread rise. He wasn't ready for this conversation. He was certain at the end of this conversation John would walk away.

"Don't you have some women to go to." Sherlock tried to regain some control. John stopped mid-movement, his shoulders squared.

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, knowing you, you need to get laid right about now." Sherlock knew he was hurting himself, and only himself. He should just keep his mouth shut, but then John would just go and leave anyway. It was better if it was on Sherlock's terms.

"What are you talking about Sherlock? I'm not seeing any woman and I don't need to get laid."

"You're telling me you're not missing sex?" Sherlock said disbelieving. He had always known how much John enjoyed sex and when Sherlock had been the one to provide him that had been no problem to Sherlock. Now he no longer was useful in that department John would not settle for less. Sherlock was sure that the moment John found somebody who could satisfy him sexually, who wasn't broken, he would be gone and would never return.

And if Sherlock was honest he felt an insane jealousy rise in his gut at the thought of John with somebody else. So he wondered why his mouth seemed so determent to do the one thing that would certainly scare John away. He just could not help himself and bitterly spoke again.

"John, you're going to walk away anyway, so what's stopping you?" John's face had slowly turned red and he was doing that thing with his lips that in the old days would have made Sherlock hard in seconds. Now there was nothing. This only made Sherlock more determined to end things.

"Sherlock." John turned around, his face blank.

"John, I don't want to hear it. I know enough. I can hear you when you masturbate in the shower. I know you don't even masturbate in bed anymore, don't want to be next to me when you orgasm. You're probably thinking about some woman."

"You're an idiot," John suddenly burst out, "a bloody idiot bastard. You only think about yourself, do you? You're feeling sorry for yourself and now you're using my needs to cool your anger on. I'm sorry I'm a man with needs and I'm sorry you're too blind to see the truth in front of you, but I'm not standing here taking your abuse." Silence spread between them. Sherlock glared at John and John had his back to him

"I'm leaving. I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I need time to think. And I think it would be better if I wasn't anywhere near you right now."

"Yes, of course, go off and find yourself some woman to shag, just don't bother me with it." Sherlock felt bitterness beat deep in his heart. He had always said he didn't need love. Now he wished he had been right about that, because it would mean he would not care about John walking away.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry." At these words John walked away, not looking back. Sherlock felt his heart break. He had just lost his best friend. He had lost everything he needed.

Sherlock turned his wheelchair around and sat in front of the window looking at John's retreating back, seeing his own pale face reflected in the glass over him.

Through everything there had been one person with him every step. And he had to go and destroy their friendship. He took one last look at the face in the window, at the scar, the short hair, the face of a broken man.

He turned the chair around and rolled to his workbench. There he reached for his Moroccan case and put it in front of him. Staring at it uncertain, he wanted to use again to forget all, but his heart told him he was just deluding himself and starting using again would not help his relationship with John at all.

It was late in the evening when he heard the door slam again, and the loud stomping up the stairs that followed. Sherlock turned his chair around, making sure John could not see his face.

"Sherlock." John sounded sober. Sherlock wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. So he simply ignored him.

"We need to talk, Sherlock." John walked around the chair and sat down in front of him.

"Why? What is there to say? You're no longer interested in me, so what more is there to say?"

"Sherlock, I never said I was not interested in you." John voice sounded so soft, so friendly, so gentle that Sherlock scowled as he looked up. He could read all those emotions in John's face, but one thing he couldn't read, one thing he didn't understand.

"Sherlock, your words hurt me," John said. Sherlock did not expect those words.

"What are you saying?"

"The lack of trust in your words. The lack of trust in my feelings for you hurt. Worst than I thought possible. So I had to go. I just didn't want to say something we would be both regret. Also there was something else I need to do." John smiled and Sherlock looked stunned, hope started to sing in his heart.

"What was that?" Sherlock asked tentatively.

"I needed some information."

"What kind of information." Sherlock slowly regained his confidence.

"You'll see." John smiled an enigmatic smile and Sherlock was fascinated. For the first time in weeks he was deducing John again. He watched as John pulled off his coat. John's scarf had been done slightly different than when he had left which meant he had taken it off. There was no trace of alcohol on him so he had been somewhere warm but not in a pub. So friend? The bag he had brought with him was non-descript, but there was a very slight trace of glitter on it.

"Sherlock, would you like to have sex with me." The words stopped all of Sherlock's thoughts in their track.

"Yes, but…" At these words John held up his hand.

"Don't say another word." John moved behind him and Sherlock wanted to turn around, but John's hand on his shoulder hold him in place. He stayed still as John walked away. Sherlock heard John move around bit. Then John stood in front of Sherlock, his eyes locked with Sherlock's before he stepped forward.

"Do you know why." Another step forwards.

"Most." Hands on Sherlock's shoulders.

"Wheelchairs." Left leg on Sherlock's right side.

"Have." Right leg on the other side.

"Detachable." Whisper in Sherlock's ear.

"Armrests." And John sat down in Sherlock's lap, effectively pinning Sherlock to his seat. John immediately started to suck on Sherlock's earlobe. Sherlock felt his heart race.

"I," Sherlock gasped as John used his teeth. "Have an inkling." He breathed out harshly when John found the most sensitive spot on the edge of his jaw.

John moved upwards again and breathed over Sherlock's ear for a moment.

"Good, that means we can get to business." John's left hand cradled Sherlock's head as John's mouth kissed slowly up Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock decided at that moment he much rather had that mouth on his. Judging by the pleased sounds coming from John when their mouths met John rather liked the idea too. Sherlock's tongue immediately started to explore to find if things had changed in the last three months. John groaned and leaned in to kiss him. John moved his mouth away after a far too short moment. He nipped at Sherlock's lips, taking his bottom gently between his and Sherlock couldn't stop the groan coming form his mouth.

"Perfect," John said as he let go gently.

Sherlock let his forehead rest on John's shoulder. He loved the man and judging by the man's reaction he returned the feelings.

"Sherlock." John's mouth was back on his ear. "Do you know what else I discovered tonight?"

At these words John's hand dispersed between their bodies moving the shirt up caressing the strip of stomach bared. Sherlock gasped as John gently stroked and groaned as John used his nails to trace his way back.

"Paraplegics are often extra sensitive where they can still feel." John's left hand was still caressing, massaging Sherlock's head and he felt a frown form as John's fingers ran over the ugly scar on his head and face.

"Don't frown." John's left hand slid over his frowned forehead, wiping it smooth.

Sherlock wanted to reply, but all thoughts were driven out of his mind by the fingers that were gently brushing his nipples. Sherlock felt he needed to do something with his hand and he pulled John's head against his, kissing him again. He had no idea how long they spend kissing, stroking, but he suddenly felt the urge to feel more skin he needed to see John in all his glory.

His hands tugged at the jumper and John sat back drawing breath as hard as he could.

"Ah yes, that might make things easier," John said and he removed his jumper and shirt in one go. Sherlock immediately had his hands on John, stroking his stomach. John took Sherlock's hand and placed on his shoulder, placed it on the beautiful scar. Sherlock felt his heart beat wildly. He knew he was given a precious gift, the gift of trust. John again moved his hand over the scar of Sherlock's face.

"Remember, Sherlock, they're both battle scars and they're something to be proud of." Sherlock wasn't sure about that, but he wasn't going to protest.

Sherlock looked up and smiled, his hand slowly dropped down making sure he moved over John's nipple. John gasped at the movement and Sherlock moved his hand up again, just to get that same sound again.

"This is unfair," John said, "you're still dressed." At these words John moved the blue dressing gown from Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock wanted protest he wasn't helpless, but the tenderness and eagerness in John's movement stopped him.

Sherlock let John move his hands from the dressing gown and the t-shirt followed quickly and Sherlock gasped as John attached his mouth to Sherlock's left nipple, playing with it. The sensation was al almost too intense and just as Sherlock wanted to push him away, just as it got to much John stopped, leaving Sherlock gasping for breath. John smiled against his skin, as he slowly moved downwards. Sherlock closed his eyes when with one last spike of pleasure all sense disappeared and he was roughly slammed back on earth.

John who had clearly sensed his distress smiled at him.

"Don't worry; I know what I'm doing. I'm a doctor after all," he said with a smirk. Sherlock groaned at the joke, but he couldn't stop the smile that appeared on his face.

"Let's get this open." John, without any show, opened the button and the zipper of Sherlock's trousers. Then he pushed Sherlock's boxers out of the way and took Sherlock's cock out. Sherlock looked down at John's hands and the difference of the input from his eyes and the input of his other senses hit him. And to his surprise it was rather erotic.

John kissed trail across Sherlock's stomach, ignoring his cock for the moment, just moving up, making Sherlock gasp as he suddenly felt the kisses as well saw them. John kept moving up, sucking, and leaving his mark on Sherlock's skin, until he captured his mouth again kissing Sherlock deeply. After a long time John moved back and smiled.

"Let's make things even better for the both of us." John removed the remaining of his clothes efficiently. Sherlock drunk in the sight before him. John was clearly enjoying himself if his erection was anything to go by.

"And now things get a bit more interesting." John grabbed the plastic bag from behind him.

"Oh, and what did you have in mind," Sherlock purred. He loved how John shuddered at his words. He watched as John stood up again, looking at him.

"How am I going to do this?" He looked around, then placed a few pillows before the chair and sat down cross legged in front of Sherlock, his cock standing proudly.

"Did you know that getting an erection is both a mental and a physical thing? Men can get hard." John carefully took Sherlock's cock in his hand. The sensation was odd; he saw things happening, but he felt nothing. "Due to arousal, and due to physical stimulation." John slowly moved his hand up and down Sherlock's shaft.

Nothing happed, just as Sherlock had expected. He had not been able to achieve an erection ever since the fall. Even things that would get him hard with just one thought did nothing for him anymore. His attention was brought back to John by a sharp pinch to his left nipple.

"Are you paying attention?" John asked, smiling like he knew what was going on in his mind and that thought made Sherlock's inside burn with happiness.

"It's not going to work." Sherlock gestured to his useless lower part.

"Oh, but I've not even started and I wasn't finished with my story. I was going to say that men, when." He pulled something from his left side.

"Stimulated at the right spot." At that he switched something on.

"Can achieve an erection." John firmly took Sherlock's cock in his hand, holding it up.

"Even if they're not aroused." John pushed something against the underside of Sherlock's cock. Sherlock gasped, what ever it was it made his stomach muscle tremble faintly. He could feel something travel up his body.

And to his surprise his cock slowly filled. John smiled and gently massaged Sherlock's cock, moving the little vibrator over his cock, until he once again was half hard. John moved away, admiring is handy work and Sherlock could do nothing more than wonder at the sight before him and at the man who achieved it.

"Unfortunately," John said with a devilish smile, "paralyzed men often can not sustain an erection, so they might need some help." John pulled a black leather contraption from the bag beside him. Sherlock watched with fascination as John put the soft leather cock ring on Sherlock. The sight was glorious. His cock, not quite hard pushed against his stomach by the cock ring. His trousers and boxer half hiding his balls made the wonderful picture complete.

"Okay, that's part one," John said with a smile as he stood up and straddled Sherlock's lap again. Sherlock watched as John's erection brushed his. Sherlock moved his hand and quickly took them both together. John gasped at this and looked at Sherlock with a smile

"I've something else to do for those clever, clever hands." John pushed a tube into Sherlock's free hand. Sherlock looked at it and looked questioning at him.

"I'm not having your fingers in me without lube, Sherlock," John said with a laugh. Sherlock felt his eyes go wide and then he smiled. His fingers trembled as he opened the bottle. It had been too long and even if he wouldn't feel anything he was certain he was going to enjoy making John gasp again.

He put lube on his right hand and slowly eased a finger inside. John indeed gasped for a moment and Sherlock drank in the lovely sound. He quickly added a second finger and moving trying to find that one spot he knew would made John cry out.

"Fuck." John let his head rest on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock was so surprised at how erotic this was to him. He hadn't expected making John feel good was making him tingle all over, would give him such a physical reaction,

John groaned as Sherlock slowly slid his finger over his prostate. Then John smiled and kissed Sherlock.

"Are you ready?" he asked after a few minutes?

"Always." John took both cocks in his hands and started to stoke Sherlock watched with fascination as both their cocks leaked pre-come. His face went from tense to hungry to content. John was engrossed in both of their cocks and Sherlock decide he could stay like this forever, John close like this, the two of them as one. Then after a few more heated kisses John found a rhythm. Sherlock discovered he was enjoying this more than any sex he ever had. He could concentrate on John completely, cataloguing what made John groan lovely, kissing the bit of skin just where his ear met his jaw.

He loved making John stumbled in his rhythm, when he took a nipple in his mouth and bit down to the edge between pain and pleasure. Sherlock observed and finally closed his hand around John's. They moved as one. Sherlock paid close attention to John's face. Then John let go, placing both of his hands on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock kept moving his hand up and down, pushing at the slits with his thumb spreading the pre come with interested. His other hand massaged the tense muscles in John's leg. There was too much to watch, too many reactions from John so it caught him by surprise when John finally came, spurting come on both their chests. John sighed as he fell against Sherlock. Sherlock wanted to stay like this for as long as he could. After a few minutes John started to kiss Sherlock's chest before he slowly lifted himself off Sherlock and settled on the pillows. Sherlock to his surprise was still mostly hard. He looked as John kept kissing and then with a smirk pulled out the little vibrator he had used before.

He held it against Sherlock's cock and at the same time started to kiss his nipples again Sherlock groaned as John took his left nipple between his teeth. The twin sensation of his ultra sensitive nipple and the vibrator was the oddest thing he had ever experience. John with a smile release Sherlock's cock from the cock ring and Sherlock watched with fascination has John kissed his way down and then with a sigh swallowed Sherlock. Sherlock didn't feel a thing but the sight was pornographic. Then John let go with a pop and the vibrator was back again. John sat back giving Sherlock a clear view of Sherlock's cock and then suddenly and without warning Sherlock felt his body react like he was having an orgasm. His muscle seized up for a moment his stomach muscle started to tremble his breathing sped up and them like miracle he saw rather than felt his cock ejaculate.

John smiled at what Sherlock was sure was a look of wonder at his own body.

They remained sitting for long time John on the floor his head resting on Sherlock's lap, Sherlock's hand on John's head. John was the first to break the silence.

"Sherlock, there's no reason for me to leave you. I still can get everything I ever need from you. Love, friendship, and tomorrow you're going to Lestrade and help him solve that murder case he was pestering you about so I can get some excitement back too. And now we are going to bed."

Sherlock made ready to move, his hands already on the wheels when he realised he couldn't move. Something was blocking his wheels.

"Allow me," John said and Sherlock was ready for John to remove the blocks around his wheels, but to Sherlock's surprise John scoped him up and carried him to bedroom.

That night John slept in Sherlock's arms and Sherlock fell asleep with a smile on his face. He would never walk again, but life wasn't too bad. And the thought of the brilliant unexpected man beside him made warmth spread through him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN2: I know there will be people asking about accessibility of Bakerstreet. I wanted the boys still living in Bakerstreet. This did pose a problem because Bakerstreet is not exactly wheelchair friendly. In the end I decided to use a construction a close friend uses, which consists of using two chairs (one for outside/downstairs and one for upstairs) and a stair lift. We spend a lot of time thinking up ways to get it working in 221B and I had worked it all out and then failed to actually use it in the story.


End file.
